


Visit to an Old Friend

by butalasearwax



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butalasearwax/pseuds/butalasearwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock visits John</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visit to an Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sydney the Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sydney+the+Amazing).



> I wrote this a while ago (again) and am just getting around to posting it now sorry guys.

A monotonous beeping jolted me into consciousness. I could feel a soft bed, the covers warm and clean. I kept my eyes closed, trying to remember going to sleep the night before. I really should turn that alarm off I thought, though I made no effort to do so.   
Voices broke through the continuity of the beeping.  
“Open the door,” said a low voice.  
“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there.”  
“I want to see him.”  
“Family for now, sir.”   
“He doesn’t have any family, at least not any he’s closed to. I’m the closest thing he has.”   
“I can’t let you in.”  
“Maybe the rules say you can’t, but you’re not one to follow the rules, are you Mr. Jones.”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the second voice, rather nervously.   
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Now, open the door.”  
I opened my eyes as the door opened and clicked shut. I blinked in the bright light, taking in my surroundings. I was in a hospital room, laying in crisp white sheets. A small clock read 9:37 and the sky outside the window was lit with artificial light. I turned my head slowly to see who had entered.   
“Sherlock.”  
“Hello, John.”   
I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my side forced me back into my pillows. Sherlock crossed the room in a few strides, but stopped tentatively a few feet away. I beckoned him closer, and after a few moments pause, he sat in the chair next to my bed. I reached out, half expecting him to be an illusion.   
“You’re real then, I guess,” I muttered as I pushed a piece of hair from his eyes. I stared at him for a moment, before shock was overrun with hurt and anger and I slapped him across his face with all the strength my weak arm could muster. “You’re damn lucky I’m hung up in bed right now!” I shouted. He didn’t try to stop me, he simply sat there, a red handprint blossoming on his cheek.   
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  
“Is everything alright?” a nurse asked, poking her head in through the door.   
“Yes, of course,” I said shortly. She stayed there for a moment, unsure of what to do, before she turned and left, closing the door behind her.   
“I had to bury you,” I said, dropping my voice.  
“I know. But if you didn’t, then I would have had to bury you and I couldn’t.” He looked up at me, his eyes pleading for me to understand.   
“You almost did.” I motioned to the hospital room.  
“What happened, John?”  
“You were gone, I needed a distraction, the army was best I could do.”  
“I had no idea you would be so affected.”  
“Oh no, of course not, I mean it was only leading me to believe you were dead for three bloody years,” I snapped back sarcastically. He looked down, guilt and regret written across his face.  
“I had to keep you safe.”  
“I know. I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s just, it was hard.” My anger melted away at his dejected expression.  
The door opened again and a doctor walked into the room.  
“How are you doing Mr. Watson?” he asked cheerfully.   
“Fine, all things considered.”  
“All things considered, you’re a very lucky man. We dug these out of you.” He held up a jar with two little pieces of metal in it. “One almost nicked your femoral artery, the other broke a few ribs.” He pointed at an x-ray on the wall behind me. “I’ll change the bandages in the morning, Mr. Watson, but try to get some rest. I’m Doctor Sullivan, by the way.”  
“You can call me John. Can I see those, please?” Doctor Sullivan handed me the jar. I looked at the bullets, reflecting the stark hospital light. “Can I keep them?” He nodded. “Here.” I handed them to Sherlock.   
“What do you want me to do with them?”  
“I don’t know, just put them over there.”  
“Who’re you?” Doctor Sullivan asked, not unpleasantly, as Sherlock put the jar down on the table.   
“This is...er...” I paused, glancing at Sherlock.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, turning to look at the doctor.  
“Sherlock Holmes, why does that sound familiar?”  
“It’s a very common name,” I interjected, trying to keep the mood light.   
“I’m a detective.”  
“Sorry...no. It’ll come to me. Well, nice to meet you anyways, Detective Holmes. Try to let John get some rest.” Doctor Sullivan left, closing the door behind him.   
“You’ve got your work cut out for you, this time,” I grinned, pointing at my leg. “Might actually be a real limp.”   
“Could be worse,” he said, picking the jar of bullets up again and turning it over in his long fingers.   
“Yeah, could be. Stay, will you?” I asked, already starting to feel my eyelids become heavy with exhaustion.   
“Of course.”   
“You won’t disappear?”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I closed my eyes, instantly beginning to drift off to sleep. “Goodnight, John.”   
***  
A sharp pain in my leg woke me. The sky was still dark, the stars hidden by streetlights, the clock reading 1:56am. I looked over to see Sherlock asleep in his chair, slumped over onto my bed, his arm resting painfully across my injured leg. I reached down and carefully moved his arm, taking his hand in mine. The pain faded as the warmth from his hand reassured me that he was still there, that everything was OK.   
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” I mumbled as I began to drift back into the soundest sleep in three years. “Welcome home.”


End file.
